A Hint of Normalcy
by latefebruary
Summary: "He wanted to wipe off that ridiculous lipstick that practically screamed at him that this was indeed not the Granger he used to know." With a war looming over their heads, it seemed like they were inching closer and closer to insanity, leaving them desperate to cling to the only thing that reminded them of times where they once had been safe.
1. Red Carpet

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or any of the included characters created by JK Rowling.

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„How can we trust you to tell the truth?"

He pondered for a few moments, fruitless. The man in front of him was watching over him like a hawk, towering his seated stance. His glasses were stained with fingerprints, his cloak coated with dust and dirt. Lips pressed into a fine line, his stare flickered to the door for a second, then back to his prisoner. At least, that was what he had been called. He didn't think that turning yourself in would put you in the category of prisoners; in fact, he liked to call himself a guest of honour. When he could ignore the ropes tied tightly around his wrists, of course.

But Draco Malfoy hadn't expected things to turn out any differently. Maybe years ago, the Ministry would have rolled out a red carpet for him, welcomed him with fearful stares. He would have relished in the fake compliments with their hidden agendas, their inferior attitude. The people would have pressed themselves against the walls of the hallways, just to open up a free path to their superiors. Light chatter and laughter would have turned into almost inaudible whispers and exclamations of awe and fright. The Malfoys had rivalled even Voldemort in that department.

"Trust? Hmm, that could prove to be quite tricky. But it's not like I'm here to beg you to listen to me – you take it or leave it, that's completely up to you..." He paused to take a look at the golden plate on the office desk in front of him, narrowed his eyes in mock concentration, and continued. "Mr Chief Auror. I'm impressed, Potter. Didn't peg you as physically strong, although you always proved to be the goody-goody, I'm-looking-for-trouble kind of guy. Good to see you're making use of that."

_Mr Chief Auror_, however, didn't lose his cool; he moved around his desk and settled on his cushioned seat, his eyes never leaving Draco's, who couldn't help the smirk forming on his face. Harry Potter rested his arm on the mahogany, leaned forward, a deep frown on his face.

"Too bad I can't say the same things about you making use of your 'skills', if you could call them that. And I have to say I _did_ peg _you_ as someone who would join Voldemort and follow his orders without hesitation – you turned out_ just_ like your father, nothing surprising there."

He struggled hard to keep the smirk in tact. _Just like your father..._ Yes, just like his father he would not let the world take any satisfaction in knowing his weaknesses, his feelings, fears... He had succeeded so far in remaining the closed book he had perfected in his school years, and would certainly not falter in front of _him_, Mr Chief Auror.

"You wound me!," he exclaimed dramatically, putting a palm on where he thought his heart must be beating underneath. Not the mythical organ that supposedly made you feel, made you human. No, it was the anatomically correct shape he thought of, and its functions to make the body operate correctly. Some may say that Death Eaters didn't have a heart, or that is was rotting away inside their bodies, coated with fungus, almost falling apart. But there he was, sitting in an Auror Office and pretty much alive. And with Harry _bloody_ Potter to prove it. His heart was perfectly in tact, making the pure, untainted blood rush through his veins. No matter what the perfect, saintly commoners said, he wasn't dead yet and preferred it that way.

Draco watched the auror rummage through his desk drawers to retrieve a roll of parchment and a quill, which he dumped in front of him unceremoniously. He unrolled the parchment and tipped his wand against it, causing it to glow for a mere second. A binding contract – nothing he hadn't expected either. He snorted in amusement; just like he thought, he was incredibly stupid. Were was his Know-It-All friend when he needed her? And seeing Potter clearly impressed with his work was what drove him to open his mouth.

"And there I thought I was on the list of the Most Wanted Witches and Wizards of Britain, now I'm seriously offended, Potter", he drawled, mustering his dirty fingernails in disgust. He needed to groom them as soon as he got out of there, immediately.

"Why wouldn't you? Do you want me to read your files to you? It must be hard keeping count of so many crimes."

As Draco raised his eyes to his opposite, he saw confusion and anger written over his face. He licked his lips, and leaned forward to whisper.

"You think your pretty little contract, which you seem to be so proud of, would keep me from lying to you? Just like you said; my file is pretty stuffed and my Kiss long overdue, so I don't think another sentence would have any effect on me. Unless you're under the impression that I have multiple souls to suck out, just like our dear Voldie."

"You said his name."

An odd expression spread over Potter's face. He leaned back and seemed to be considering something. Draco narrowed his eyes. Yes, he wasn't scared to use the madman's name anymore, so what? It wasn't like Potter had ever pissed himself over the mere mention of this word; in fact, he had used his name quite frequently, causing the people around him flinch in a domino-like effect.

But Potter seemed to think differently; the contract now lay on the table, completely abandoned and forgotten while Draco glared at him. And that was the time the gash on his left arm started to burn, making blood reappear on his scourgified white sleeve. Every attempt at concealing it seemed futile; the auror behind the desk was as observant as ever, his attentive gaze flickering over his form and never leaving it. It landed on the spreading red spot, making Potter shoot out of his armchair, and make a floo call right after putting up wards around the room. Draco was impressed by how well made they were, but to him, the wards were nothing but minor hindrances. Although it wasn't like he wanted to escape anyway. He had some work to do first.

As the Boy-Who-Lived made his call in hushed tones that made it impossible for Draco to understand a single word, let alone the person on the other hand, a female one, he noted, he mourned for the loss of his wand. The stain on his sleeve grew bigger and bigger, and it wasn't like the rest of his ripped blouse was any cleaner. The fabric was soaked with a mixture of mud and sweat. And surely the metallic smell of blood didn't make the heavy scent emitting from his body any more bearable. Draco truly hated anything related to dirt.

Speaking of dirt.

When Potter stepped away from the fireplace, a woman was revealed to his sight. A dolled up one, at that. A red dress was hugging her body tightly, high heeled shoes added a lot to the almost non existing height, drawing an illusion of long legs. Sleek, brunette hair was flowing down her shoulders, framing a face painted by just the right amount of make up. The red lips stood out brilliantly.

He couldn't help but stare, not out of admiration, but clear bewilderment. And it didn't help that Potter didn't look confused even in the slightest, though the stricken expression was quite evident.

"Was it an important mee-"

"Which one isn't?," she hissed, glaring at her friend. "I really hope you have a good reason for in-"

Her eyes fell on said reason, good or bad he couldn't tell, and she stopped talking. Blinking three times, she stared at Draco, clearly flabbergasted by his presence. Her expression turned to one of clear disgust.

"You didn't need me for that; it's Azkaban for him."

"Hermione..."

He didn't hear the rest. His focus wavered and all he could make out was the pounding in his head, all he could feel was the pain in his left arm. Last time he had had Severus to make things right, but right now, he was in the hands of one auror that most certainly wanted him dead anyway, and a woman who seemed angry enough to do the deed herself. Rid the world of his existence for good. That was why he didn't expect two hands ripping off his left sleeve that had gotten all heavy from the blood he had lost, and most certainly didn't expect them to hold on to his arm. The ropes around his wrists disappeared, and he could tell from the way it stung that his skin was clearly irritated. His eyes remained unfocused, but the softness of said hands assured him that it wasn't Potter mending to his wounds. One hand left his arm, only to be replaced by the tip of a wand pressed on where his Dark Mark had once been. He didn't hear the incantations, but felt the same effects of those by Snape taking place.

The first sensation made him let out a scream he couldn't hear but feel ripping at his vocal cords, made him flinch out of his seat only to be held back by another pair of hands, which were strong and rough, undoubtedly from all the fieldwork of an auror. It felt like a sharp razor cutting through his already marred flesh, but it was a rather short lived sensation. The warmth spreading through his body made up for it.

"I'm going to be sick."

Slowly, he was regaining his senses, regretting it instantly as he heard Potter choke on his guts. He was bent over a dustbin, luckily with his back against Draco, who was grimacing. He felt like vomiting, too. The witch next to him, however, was looking down on his arm in pure concentration. Her brows were furrowed, lips as tight as they could get. One might have thought that the sight of bared muscles, bones and nerves didn't affect her at all, but he caught her biting the inside of her mouth, be it for merely two seconds, and watched a driblet of sweat leaving a trail from her temple down to her jawline.

Her eyes wandered up to meet his very own, grey ones. Her expression didn't waver when she finally spoke up.

"Snape is alive?"

A cough erupted from the other side of the room. Potter was clutching his stomach with one hand while wiping away the vomit with the other. His walk back to Draco's chair wasn't quite confident, in fact his whole body was still shaking. And his voice proved to be as unsteady.

"What?," he croaked, swallowing repeatedly until Granger summoned a white porcelain mug filled with water and thrust it in his hands. After taking several gulps, he cleared his throat and focused his attention on Draco, who was watching the pair with a bored expression. In reality, he was rather intrigued by the changes that had occurred in the three years he hadn't seen either of them. Especially the mudblood he found interesting. Not that he would let them know any of that.

Hermione's eyes were trained on him when she answered Potter, not even blinking once.

"I've received an owl, just a week ago. It contained instructions on a specific healing charm, the one I just performed on Malfoy. The letter said that it could prove to be useful and I should use it in desperate need, if I shouldn't know how to heal a certain wound." She turned to her friend, who tried hard not to look at Draco's left arm, with a frown on his face that matched hers. "It has to be him. He knew Malfoy would come, and he also knew that you would ask me to heal him."

"It could be Lucius for all we know-"

"He's dead."

It seemed that not his answer, but his voice had startled them as they looked quite surprised that he had said anything at all. What deepened the frown on Potter's face was how he had held his tone devoid of any kind of emotion, almost casual even. Draco thought he shouldn't be so surprised; he _was_ rather skilled at controlling his mimics and gestures, wasn't he? Not that Wonder Boy would understand how he did that; for all he knew, the guy had always worn his heart on his sleeve, had never felt the need to suppress his anger or other kinds of feelings that would betray him. Draco was sure that it would be the death of him.

"You don't sound like you care."

"Of course he does, Harry, don't be ridiculous," she retorted in a calm and confident voice. Draco narrowed his eyes on her and tried to intimidate her with a cold glare, but it was no use. She held the eye contact, her face completely blank. He was taken aback by the emptiness he saw in her eyes and broke the eye contact only to stare at the auror taking a seat.

"Not like you would know...," he muttered, more to himself than anyone in particular. He didn't want to be stricken into a completely unnecessary, time consuming argument, just as they always proved to be whenever Granger was a participant. It wasn't like he had come for a chat between old schoolmates. However, she didn't back down, adding to his sulking mood.

"Your hands. They are balled to fists."

They were. And it was unnerving him that she wasn't smirking smugly, only watching his reaction to being exposed. Whatever had happened with the old mudblood Granger, he didn't like it. Not even a bit. The Granger he knew would take every opportunity to taunt him whenever the opportunity arose just to get on an equal level, would take visible offence whenever her abilities were in question. And she would most certainly not dress up... for whatever reason that would be. He wanted to wipe off that ridiculous lipstick that practically screamed at him that this was indeed not the Granger he used to know.

She didn't wait for a response when she asked if Snape was indeed alive. His only answer was a curt nod. Whatever happened after that, he didn't know, as he woke up in a room with drawn curtains and a heavy scent of jasmine hanging in the air.

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_This is my first fanfiction I actually dared to publish, but please feel free to review and criticise anything related to the plot, grammar etc (English is not my first language, but I do try my best), it would mean a lot to me simply because I'm aiming to improve my language and writing skills._

_-latefebruary_


	2. Storm Before the Calm

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or any of the included characters created by JK Rowling.

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It took exactly twenty seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Laying on his uncomfortably stiff back, Draco stared up to the cracked, blotchy ceiling. He contemplated getting up and making himself familiar with his surroundings, but what kept him from sitting up was the tingling sensation on both his wrists. He looked down at his hands resting on his form, tied together with a strip of soft fabric. Just underneath he could make out bandages on each wrist. His eyes moved up to his injured left arm, and he was relieved to find it wrapped up as well. It wasn't such a nice sight after all.

So the prisoner treatment hadn't come to an end. Of course it hadn't – Potter had no reason to trust him yet, and after all, was probably annoyed that his contract idea had equaled the worth of a pile of dung. And since Veritaserum had become very scarce, only to be found in the darkest corners of Knockturn Alley for a price that would make even the Malfoys take a seat, Draco knew he had to suggest taking the Unbreakable Vow if he wanted this to work. Merlin knew he so desperately _needed_ this to work. And if Potter finally realised that he himself needed it as much as Draco did and swallowed his pride to accept help coming from a Death Eater, maybe then none of this had been for naught after all. Even if it meant Azkaban, more probably the Kiss for him when all this was over. He hoped that Severus knew what he was doing.

But _where_ was he? Even the slightest movement made the bed underneath him creak as he finally sat up. His gaze flickered over the dusty furniture, which consisted of a wardrobe and a slightly crooked chair only. A set of robes, which he recognised as his own, had been thrown over it with his black boots underneath. Other than that, the room was completely blank, devoid of any colour aside from a bunch of blankets, which now lay abandoned on the wooden floor. He assumed that his sleep, once again, hadn't been a very restful one. His aching spine only confirmed that.

And then there was this smell. Not that he complained; it reminded him of his mother's perfume, her favourite one at that. It wasn't coming from his pillows nor from the mattress, so he decided to follow his curiosity. Slightly wobbly on his legs, he went through the already open door and found himself in a room he didn't quite know what to name. Kitchen counters were lined at the opposite wall while a small, square dinner table had been placed nearby. A sofa and a weird contraption, which looked suspiciously Muggle to him, were set in the left corner of the room, with a chimney placed fairly close. To his right he found various other doors.

His eyes settled on the witch standing in front of a steaming cauldron, stirring cautiously, keeping count with her fingers. He watched her drop in some ingredients he couldn't quite figure out yet. However, the candles beside the cauldron seemed to give her a fairly satisfying light. Why wouldn't she just open the bloody curtains and let some light flood in? He shook his head and took a few steps inside, hearing her mutter under her breath.

"Typical. Where _is_ he when you need him?"

Her petite form leaned over the bubbling potion, and he cocked his head in confusion. Granger? So he must have dreamt seeing her at the Ministry, because yet again he found himself surprised. And oddly relieved that her hair had taken its natural form, frizzy and curly. She was wearing a grey jumper and jeans, looking like her usual self. But when she turned around, he wasn't too sure about that anymore.

He lifted his chin and recomposed himself as much as he could despite the pounding headache that just wouldn't go away. And _Merlin_, was he freezing, but it wasn't like he would show it. His smirked despite himself, receiving nothing but a blank face. No, seeing her at the Ministry hadn't been a dream. She offered absolutely no reaction, nothing for him to react to. Tilting her head, she observed him, looking him up and down. Feeling increasingly uncomfortable under her scrutiny, he scowled.

"Like what you see?"

She furrowed her brows when she met his cold eyes and walked up to him, carefully at first, with a glance over a shoulder to check on her potion. She stopped right in front of him and placed a palm on his forehead, then on his cheek. Draco, who had been too perplexed by the unexpected touch, finally came to his senses and slapped away her hand as best as he could with his wrists tied together. She flinched but didn't respond, showing no hint of hurt or anger at his outburst.

"Don't touch me, _Mudblood_!," he hissed, with as much venom as he could muster up. He took a step backwards, but the feeling of dizziness overtook him, making him stumble slightly. All he could see was black; not even the candle light was there to guide him through the darkness. Draco felt an object pushing him at his calves, and he collapsed on it, breathing heavily. Footsteps echoed throughout the room; at least _some_ of his senses were working, he concluded bitterly, and closed his eyes as they proved to be of no use any longer.

"You are still burning up – here, drink this."

A glass was pushed against his lips, and greedily he drank whatever it was she was giving him. And it wasn't like he could have objected, anyway. After several moments he felt blankets around his body, but he still couldn't help but shudder. He was _freezing_, and Granger was telling him that he was hot? And wait, "still"? With the headache slowly subsiding, he decided to test out his vision. First, he opened one eye only and was glad to see Granger back at the counters, whispering incantations while pointing her wand at the brass cauldron. She turned around once to check on him, then turned back, her attention focused on what she was brewing.

"How many days have passed since-"

"Two," she interrupted him rudely, making him glare daggers at her back, "Your arm was infected, I reckon. Hence your fever."

"Where's Potter?"

Yes, maybe he should have thanked her, but did it really matter? In fact, he found himself greatly annoyed that the Mudblood had seen him in such a vulnerable state. Hell, he wasn't a bloody child and surely didn't need her pestering and mothering him 24/7. Or maybe he actually did, but that was beside the point wasn't it? It hurt his pride too much.

"At the Ministry. You missed him by barely an hour, actually. I told him to come by tomorrow, when you are fully rested and fit enough to conduct whatever business you two have," she replied in a clipped tone, and finally faced him. And there she was scrutinising him again, like he was some kind of interesting object, a possible topic for one of her sodding essays. A frown was etched on her face, and he swore that he had seen a strange emotion flicker over it, be it for just a few seconds. He couldn't tell what it was, but it wasn't like that had been his main concern. Her stare was truly infuriating.

"And Ginger Boy? Still Potter's underdog, isn't he? Not that I would be surprised..." He snorted, shaking his head. "You know, I kind of _do_ feel sorry for him, but what can you do? He is a Weasley, after all, destined to fail."

He felt like patting himself on the shoulder when he watched Granger turn away, probably to hide her emotions from him. But he had regained his eyesight at the last. She picked up her wand rather aggressively, pointing it at the steaming cauldron, hissing, almost spitting out some kind of spell. Smirking to himself, he relished in the fact that he had gotten under her skin fairly easily. So at least that hadn't changed. And he swore to himself that he would make the best of his short attendance at this rotten place.

It was the roaring of the fireplace that made him almost jump out of his blankets, and he turned around, only to come face to face with none other than Freckleface in person. Instantly, Granger was by his side, dragging him away from Draco to his utmost annoyance. The redhead kept the eye contact, scowling at him while Hermione seemed to give him one of her annoying lectures in hushed tones. It didn't look like he was paying lots of attention until he faced her, red in the face, and narrowed his eyes.

"He's not my responsibility! He can rot for all I care, and trust me, I _really _don't, but I'm doing this because Harry thinks-"

"How utterly predictable, Weasley," Draco drawled, entangling himself out of the thick blankets and finally standing up. The dizziness was gone. "What's next, polishing his shoes? Better hurry up then. I've heard Potter is not quite patient; you wouldn't want to displease your master, would you?"

Next thing he found himself grabbed at his shoulders, too weak to react, and then pressed at the cold brick wall. Furious, blue eyes were trained on his own as he felt the tip of a wand poke through his throat, making him suffocate.

"Ron! Stop it, he's wounded!"

"Listen to me, Ferret boy, and you better listen closely-"

"Ron, don't; please calm down-"

"One step out of line, and you're dead. And if I even _hear_ about you touching Hermione, I will make sure that you get your proper treatment first. Understood?"

When he finally let go off him, but not without giving him another violent push against the wall, Draco slid down, his legs going weak. He was sitting on the creaky floor, legs stretched out as he watched the pair having a stare down.

"_Here_," Weasley spat, throwing a bag on the small table but missing it, making its contents sprawl on the floor. Draco could make out some roots, jars that somehow had survived the fall and bundles of a variety of herbs. "I'm done. If the bastard needs anything else, he can get it himself; I'm not his bloody errand boy."

"It's not like you're doing this for him, Ron! We need to keep him alive because-"

"Because of the Order? For the good cause? Maybe you can fool yourself, Hermione, but I'm not bloody stupid!," Weasley scoffed and took one step closer to Hermione. "Spare yourself the disappointment because he is not your bloody saviour. Harry told me what you talked about, and he actually agrees with me on this one. It's a lost cause, and you know it." With that, he strode towards the fireplace, ignoring Granger's shouts completely.

"How _dare _you, Ronald Weasley?! Come back this instant, we're not finished!"

And she stood there, watching his retreating figure disappear in the flames. Her face flushed in anger and hurt, she balled her hands and ground her teeth. For a fleeting moment she looked like she would break down in tears the way her brows furrowed and her lower lip trembled slightly, but the moment didn't last long. She was back to wearing her expressionless mask, breathing calmly while unclenching her hands, flexing them. Draco, who was still planted on the hard floor, blinked several times at her figure walking seemingly carelessly to the supplies Weasley had just dropped on the floor. She gathered and shelved them in their respective cupboards and drawers except for one green tinted jar, which she put next to the simmering cauldron. Her voice was disturbingly calm and devoid of any emotion when she spoke to him, her back yet again turned on him. As if Draco had just imagined what had just transpired.

"Go get some rest until the potion's ready. It'll take three more hours."

And he complied. Admitting to himself that he couldn't take any more of this wreck in the form of Hermione Granger, he decided to make a retreat. Just when he had been about to go to sulk in his room, he felt the fabric around his wrists slid down, the tight knot having vanished. He carefully touched the bandages around his wrists, then patted on his sorry excuse of an arm to have at least some clue about its state. When he was certain that he had actually touched a bone through the white, flimsy fabric, he flinched and immediately let his hand fall. He felt sick.

"Second door to your right is the bathroom. For now, you'll have to refrain from showering, so you'll have to content yourself with a _scourgify_ every once in a while."

The second he entered the awfully bright room with crumbly tiles covering the walls, he finally gave in to the urge to vomit. His body was trembling immensely as he grasped the edges of the sink, not fast enough to make it to the toilet to empty his stomach. Bizarrely, he felt disgusting and clean at the same time as he washed away the last remnants of bile out of his mouth. Avoiding the mirror in front of him at all costs, he exited the bathroom and immediately left off to his room to brood in solitude without giving the witch a second glance. He was surprised to find a tray laden with a bowl of hot chicken soup, a piece of bread and a glass of water placed on the table. It took him less than three minutes to gulp it all down.

Finally resting on the squealing mattress, he thought about the spat that had just transpired. _"He is not your bloody saviour. Harry told me what you two talked about, and he actually agrees with me on this one."_ So that was it, then? With Potter making up his mind about him, it certainly didn't look very flowery for Draco. And it wasn't a consolation that Severus would come out unscathed; all he had hoped for was for Potter to at least hear him out, see some sense. Did he truly spend all these years in absolute obedience for _nothing_? Hadn't Snape told him that it would all pay off someday, that their plan was a far too brilliant one to fall through? Draco closed his eyes; his thoughts were wearing him out, and he felt the desperate urge to just flee this world, start all over, forget about all the things he had done and had failed at. Maybe the whole ordeal at the Astronomy Tower had been a major sign and he should have just taken it as one. Who was he anyway, to think that once in his lifetime, things would go according to his plan? It was truly depressing.

But then there was the whole thing with Granger. If he could ignore the possibility of her planning his demise by giving him some sort of poison under the pretence of healing him, he was under the impression that she was genuinely trying to bring him back to health. Was it part of the plan? To gain his trust, just to strike in the next moment and kill him slowly, causing him unimaginable pain? He actually could envision her doing something like that; the things he had noticed about her were more than disconcerting. Draco was at a loss because he simply didn't know what to make of her and her bloody weird actions and expressions. He decided to just refuse the next medicine: if he was about to die slowly, he would be too numb from being ill already to feel anything else. If his plans didn't work out, he would make sure that theirs would face the same ending.

At least he would die as a true Malfoy.

* * *

I'm actually surprised that I'm able to take things a bit slowly regarding the plot, but I'm enjoying this too much. It's supposed to become at least ten chapters long, but we'll see. Since I'll be on vacation next week, I probably won't be able to upload another chapter for about eight weeks. If I can work it out, the next chapter may come this week already, if not, you'll have to be patient with me.

Thanks for the wonderful reviews; they are truly encouraging! :)

_-latefebruary_


	3. And All Was Dark

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or any of the included characters created by JK Rowling.

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The footsteps were drawing closer and closer. Every single gasp leaving their mouths, every crunch induced by heavy boots crashing leaves and breaking twigs made her twitch nervously. Ron's palm was still pressed flatly against her lips, detaining her from emitting a cry and keeping her at their current hiding place at the same time. With their wands grasped tightly, ready for any confrontation with the nearing enemies, they stood there behind a large oak tree which barely hid their dark, cloaked figures. She thanked the Gods that the sun hadn't showed its face yet, even though it served them a major disadvantage as well; after all, they were there for a mission. Catch as many of them as possible.

Of course, this was her altered version of the given mission. This was a war, after all: people would die, it was inevitable. Days ago, Moody had given clear orders, and she could still hear it ringing in her ears, never fading away. _Kill, or get killed... _But why was it that it still didn't feel right? To take a life, even though the other side was more determined to do so? Even though they had already killed so many people she knew, she had talked to, laughed with? If that was how war worked, maybe she simply wasn't cut out for the job. Which didn't mean she had the right to retaliate, not that is was an option in the first place. She had pledged full obedience, and would surely not back out. Even if it would get down to killing, or getting herself killed. She preferred the latter, and didn't know what to make of it.

The blood of two Death Eaters; no, human beings, she corrected herself because it simply didn't matter, she still felt running down her fingers, hot and sticky. Her wand was now one belonging to a killer, an assassin, and she simply refused to use it for any other place than the battlefield. She was scared that it would taint everything it came in touch with as the magic it emitted just couldn't be of good nature. It was dark. Everything around her was dark, and she knew that slowly, her body was sucking it all in, becoming part of it. She had no other choice than welcome the darkness that threatened to sneak its way inside her mind.

But it was war. And it was okay.

Her whole body was shaking, and she couldn't tell if it was all because of the biting cold only. A reassuring, warm arm was embracing her from behind, and she leaned it, fearing that otherwise she would faint any second. She wondered if Ron felt the same about himself, about killing people. But opposing to her, he had revenge in mind. Revenge for his brothers, George and Percy and lastly, his father. His fury had known no limits when the latter had died at the hands of Antonin Dolohov, and it had barely calmed down ever since. Even if he wasn't going around trashing and screaming anymore, it was still there, the blinding fury. And he never ceased to showcase it whenever there was a Death Eater to be taken down. She, on the other hand, was just tired. She wanted to crawl back under the warm, comforting covers of her bed and just sleep. Since Moody's new orders, she played with the idea of sprinting towards the hooded, masked witches and wizards with her arms spread out, accepting of any spell they had coming for her.

But it was war. And it was okay.

It all happened too quickly for both of them to react. The second she shook off her traitorous thoughts, she found herself pressed against the frosty, hard floor, a cold, sharp object barely touching her throat. Her eyes were shut tightly when she tried to concentrate on her breathing. Her wand had found its way out of her hand, and she was oddly relieved by that fact. It was like a burden had been lifted from her shoulders now that the tainted object couldn't drag her deeper into total despair any more. She didn't have to kill tonight. Because _she_ was the one being killed. She decided to look into her saviours eyes in gratitude when they would finish her off. After all, it would feel like total salvation. So she opened her eyes.

And she screamed her lungs out.

The body was lifted from her own, but she didn't stop. The burning in her throat didn't matter when she continued, even when Ron's strong arms encircled her, apparated her back to safety. She crashed things. She cried. And the screams didn't cease.

ooo

"If we don't do something about it, you might lose your arm, you know that right?"

He stood his ground, his stubbornness rivalling hers as she glared at him with her arms crossed.

"Well too bad about that. I grew quite fond of it."

They had been fighting ever since the day had started, and nobody was ready to give up yet. Draco was still furious about her applying the medicine while he had been asleep; hadn't he gone to bed with the resolve of refusing any kind of help coming from her? So he had started the day with ranting about Mudblood germs and how they had probably found their way into his system now that she had treated, and thereby, touched him. Not that this was his main concern; he didn't give a rat's arse about germs of any kind. All he cared about was how Granger was trying to undermine his plans, and it would be quite an understatement to say that he was not so pleased about that. So why not bug the hell out of her if she was trying to make his life as miserable as possible? So far, he was succeeding if her flaring nostrils were any indication.

"Why must you be so- so_ impossible_?"

Yes, he _totally_ was. And he was savouring every second of it right until she stepped, or rather _stomped_ forward to grab his arm and attempted to drag him to a nearby chair. Draco was losing his temper; why couldn't she just leave him be? What was it to her if he lost his arm? And it wasn't like Snape, _the_ Potions Master, expert of Dark Magic himself, had been any good at healing it, not even considering the fact that it had been _him_ who had inflicted the curse on his Dark Mark. What could Granger possibly do about it?

Absolutely nothing.

So he yanked away his arm and grabbed a hold of her shoulders, looking down on her. That was when he realised that she actually was sickeningly thin and small in his hands, fragile enough to break her. Now that he could see her up close, he looked at her, _really _looked at her, and noticed what he had failed to since yesterday. She looked ill. Draco shouldn't have been too surprised by that observation, but he still couldn't help it. He took in her scabbed lips, hollow cheeks and pale skin. Her eyes were slightly bloodshot, circled by dark rings. He'd always thought of her as somewhat barmy, but not in that way. She had always been obsessed with schoolwork, in a way that had never failed to annoy him beyond means. But the witch standing in front of him didn't have school to obsess over anymore, yet she still didn't seem to be right in the head. He let go off her because he'd had enough of it.

"Do you _ever_ eat, Granger?," he asked, just to overplay his uneasiness. Somehow, she had managed to make him feel something akin to pity towards her, and he didn't like it.

Without giving him any response, she picked up the tiny pot that contained the sticky salve and again, grabbed his arm. Draco growled and slapped away her hand, than the salve she held in her hand, making it fall on the floor and pour out of its container.

"DON'T. TOUCH. ME," he hissed, taking one step closer with each word he said. He couldn't tell if she was angry or terrified of him as she pushed him away with both hands, which was exactly when he heard the fireplace roar, making his head snap towards the two intruders. Granger was practically sprinting back to her room, then locking the door behind her as the men approached him.

"What is going on here?," Potter barked, looking like he straight up wanted to murder him. His companion, the former Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher Lupin was holding him back, looking disappointed. Draco couldn't tell if it was directed at him, or Wonder Boy. "If you hurt her, Malfoy, I swear-"

"Sweet Merlin, what is _wrong_ with you Gryffindors? All this worrying and pestering, it's getting on my bloody nerves. Last time I checked, she was a witch and had a wand unlike me, so you can stop playing saint for once," Draco sneered, and continued immediately when he saw him open his mouth in response. "Can we _please_ just get down to business?"

He watched Potter casting a worried glance at Hermione's bedroom door. He looked like he wanted to go and talk to her, but it was the Wolfman that made him stay right where he was. Draco sat down, not bothering to tell them to take a seat. A few moments passed in silence until he became fed up and pushed out the chairs from under the table with his feet, his head jerking towards them. They spend the next minutes just sitting there, with Draco inquiring his fingernails which he, fortunately, had had the time to clean up. He felt the unwavering gazes of the men sitting opposite to him, and tried hard not to roll his eyes.

"We still don't know how to trust you," Lupin finally spoke up, watching him suspiciously. Draco looked up to meet his eyes, folding his hands in his lap. "You have nothing to gain, but everything to lose-"

"And we know very well you can't be doing this from the goodness of your heart," Potter interrupted, earning a stern glance from their former professor. "Sorry, Professor."

"How often must I tell you to call me Remus? This is not Hogwarts, Harry-"

"Exactly, this is not Hogwarts." It was Draco that interrupted this time, but they had left him no other chance now had they? He was reaching the limit of his patience, and it certainly didn't help that they were arguing over something _that_ pathetic. "This is War, so _maybe_ we should stay on topic, shall we? Unless you think Voldemort is kind enough to wait for you to come to a conclusion."

"Right," Lupin coughed out, at least showing _some_ signs of embarrassment unlike Scarhead, who tried to stare him down. A rather poor attempt, so Draco only raised one brow, challenging him to say something. "Let's continue."

Neither did. Draco rolled his eyes as he stood up and held out his healthy arm, startling the two men in front of him. Potter had even pushed himself off the table and brandished his wand.

"W-What are you doing, Malfoy?"

"What does it look like, Potter? Get up and grab my arm. We're taking the Unbreakable Vow."

"You're joking," Potter scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. "You value your own life too much for that-"

"Yet here we are, aren't we?," Draco drawled.

"No." Getting on his two feet, Potter started to pace in front of the fireplace, still shaking his head. "All of this is- is completely_ insane_! I don't even know what I was thinking, letting you stay with Hermione..."

Draco closed his eyes in an attempt to calm down and dropped his arm as he listened to him ramble on and on. His hands were itching to wring his neck to make him finally shut up and see some sense. Potter was being his usual dense self, no doubt, but Draco had no intention of letting him get away with it this time. Not when so much was at stake. And he certainly wasn't part of the pathetic population that grovelled at his feet just because he was the Chosen One. Why not _bloody_ Longbottom? Why did it have to be _him_, the most stubborn, self-righteous moron he had ever seen walk the planet? At least, Longbottom would have listened. Okay, maybe not _listened_, rather _whimpered_ in his intimidating presence, but that wasn't up for discussion. It was about the plan. The plan that would fail if Potter didn't cooperate.

"Harry, please sit down, will you? We can discuss this-"

"There is _nothing_ left to discuss! I can tell he is up to something-"

"As your mentor," Lupin ringed out, making Harry stand still in his pacing, obviously dumbstruck by the sudden coldness in his tone, "I suggest you to sit down and listen. You have to be what your badge reads, not what you had once been to Mr Malfoy. Be professional about this, and hear him out until you can judge him fairly."

"He could prove to be useful, Harry," he added in a softer tone, and Potter actually had the decency to look down, ashamed of himself. Meanwhile, Draco was smirking to himself, having enjoyed the scolding of his arch nemesis immensely. Maybe the Wolfman wasn't such a bad bloke, after all. When Potter finally sat down and looked up to him, he started his inquisition.

"Fine, then. But all I want to know is _why_. Why would you suddenly change your mind and want to convert to our side, even though there is a huge possibility that you may end up in Azkaban? What are your motives?"

"I don't get why this should be any of your business, Potter," Draco spat, irritated by the rather personal questions. "As I've said, I don't care if you accept my help or not." Which was a huge, but necessary lie. In fact, he could feel sweat trickling down his neck. "And I'm well aware of what could be awaiting me if you decide not to trust me, thank you very much. So let me make myself very clear: I give you information, you take it. You don't get to pry into my personal business, nor do you interfere in it. No unnecessary inquisitions just because you can't restrain your nosy self. These are my conditions."

With that, he sat down and leaned back, crossing his arms. He could only hope that they couldn't read the nervousness in his eyes, notice how his blouse was drenched in sweat. Oh, how he yearned for a proper_ Scourgify_.

"Seems fair enough. And your reward for your efforts?," asked Lupin, his brows furrowed, seemingly confused about why Draco hadn't gotten to that point of his conditions. Potter looked ill; he certainly didn't agree with his former professor's statement. He was probably itching to ask him dozens of other questions.

"Seeing him dead."

Draco smirked, but there was no humour in it. And in that moment he was sure he wanted it even more than Potter. Sure, the bloke in front of him didn't have it easy since his birth, having lost his parents and Voldemort constantly breathing on his neck. But Draco had _seen_ things. Had participated in them despite himself. He had been far from sheltered from the madman, had lived under the same roof with him and learned to loathe him more and more with every passing day. For taking _everything_ away from him. He would be damned if he didn't return the favour.

The men in front of him exchanged odd looks, but what finally made Draco sigh in relief was seeing Potter stand up and hitch up his right sleeve.

Maybe they could make it work. It was a preposterous thought, but one could only hope. After all, he had no other choice than trust Severus' word and follow his orders. So he got up as well, took Potter's arm and looked him dead in the eye, smirking at the obvious nervousness etched on the face of the boy he had hated and despised ever since they had entered the Great Hall of the Hogwarts Castles. He felt nothing of the sort.

"Shall we?"

* * *

So here we are, and I'm glad I could give you this chapter before I take a long break. Things will hopefully take off from here, and I can only hope that the pace is just fine. There is so much in my head I would like to share straightaway, but I'm all for character development so I'm only just restraining myself.

I can't tell you how much it thrills me to see people taking their time to read my work. Thanks a lot!

_-latefebruary_


	4. Ripped Page

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Harry Potter or any of the included characters created by JK Rowling.

* * *

Word had gotten out that Draco Malfoy had joined the Order. The response to that was far from pretty.

Never in his life would Draco have thought that he would miss Hermione's presence. She had never reappeared out of her room, which he had broken in once he had assured himself something fishy was going on. It had been nearing midnight, with Granger nowhere in sight, when the first intruder had made his gracious entrance through the fireplace.

If you could call anything Weasley did _gracious_.

Face as red as his shaggy hair, he had stormed to where Draco had been lying on the sofa, yanked him up by the collars of his blouse, and given him a fist here, a kick there. Now that Draco finally picked up the courage to look in the mirror, he could admire the colours that were blossoming on his marvellous face. The composition of blue, green and red was truly a piece of art.

At least the Weasel had only retorted to non-magical violence. Draco was glad that he had been given the chance to create an artwork of his own on his body as well, with his muse the years he'd had to endure in the Hogwarts Castle.

The next complaint had come - oh what a surprise! - from another Weasley. The Weaselette, to be exact, and she had been fuming. She had retorted to verbal offensive, told him he was a Death Eater, a murderer. He had countered that none of this was new information "but thank you very much for the reminder". He hadn't foreseen the series of jinxes she'd had in store for him. Sneaky bastard had known exactly what she was doing; none of them had left any visible marks, so there was nothing left indicating this encounter had ever happened. Not that Draco would habe run straight into the Order's arms, pointing fingers at those that had done him harm.

But even though it had looked like she was done with him, he hadn't even started. Calling her Potter's sidekick, a frecklefaced baby that couldn't get shit done (not that he actually knew anything about her missions and success within the Order), he had struck a nerve. Draco had found himself thrown against the wall, with another pretty picture surely formed on his back. So much for her plan.

Granger could have prevented all these things from happening. But there he was, wandering around like he was some bloody museum.

It was three in the morning when the fireplace announced someone's presence. Draco sat up from his lying position to get a better glance at his next challenger and he swore by Merlin that he would not hold back this time. He was tired, and his body was aching enough as it was. But apparently there was absolutely no need for any thoughts of violence. Because it was Hermione Granger that stepped outside.

Finally.

But only if he squinted enough he could be certain it was indeed her. She was yet again almost unrecognisable with her hair tamed, face painted on and her body dressed with finest satin. He could name the fabric from the many shopping trips he'd had to endure with his mother, back then when such things as polished shoes and hair gel had mattered. It was laughable how much importance Draco had given these things. Now he couldn't care less if his hair was far from perfect, or his shoes had been replaced by muddy boots.

She was gaping at him. Keeping her safe distance, she pointed her wand at him, muttering a soft _Lumos_ into the darkness. It was assaulting his sensitive eyes now that they had adjusted to the gloominess of the flat, with the lamps only occasionally turned on. Hermione gasped, and almost fell back into the fireplace she had just come through.

"_Merlin_," she whispered, lowering her wand, obviously having seen enough of his ruined visage. She held it tight, obviously scared if her trembling hands were any indication, pointing it at corners as if some monster may be cowering somewhere, waiting for its next prey. "What happened here?"

"Your goons, _that's_ what happened," he spat, his indifference suddenly making place for the suppressed anger.

Defiantly, Hermione crossed her arms in front of her, keeping her distance. He rolled his eyes and turned around, ready to get at least some sleep in his room, but her shaky voice stopped him right at the door. As if she wasn't quite sure if it was safe to talk to him yet. "I-I need to treat those, Malfoy. And... your arm."

"Go treat yourself first, Granger. You look ridiculous."

He didn't vocalise what other expletives she could do with herself. Draco didn't wait for any response and slammed the door shut. Although it was clear now that the Order needed him as much as he needed the Order, and that therefore they wouldn't try to poison him anytime soon (at least not until he spilled more information), he went straight to bed. He couldn't care less that his cursed arm was at the risk of falling off without Granger's medication, and that his bruises felt more than unpleasant.

He just didn't want to see her fucking face. It reminded him of the warfield he was desperately trying to get away from.

ooo

She never let it go _that_ far. Not that it would be necessary to let them have their way with her.

But she felt dirty. Just like she did after every night she'd spent at the Death Eater gatherings, which always took place at an abandoned Muggle town. If Hermione had found that ironic at first, she knew better now. Half of the towns population may have fled, but not without reason. Because the other half had been killed mercilessly, nailed at the front doors of unsuspecting retirees, thrown at dogs only to be found by their owners, innocent children, piece by piece. All that Hermione had learned at her first night, and the bile never ceased to rise up her throat when she was reminded of the particular gleam their eyes had taken when they had told her the story. Like an anecdote from the good ole days.

The Death Eaters always moved on to other places to rest, only be replaced by their colleagues, and Hermione felt like they were getting younger and younger. She would find nearly sixteen year olds take their place between leering elder men, visibly uncomfortable. They reminded her of someone, yet again, they didn't. She could never be too sure about where Malfoy was standing.

If Voldemort caught wind of what his recruits were doing, heads would roll. Not that it would be left at that, but Hermione didn't want to get caught up in these kind of thoughts. These kind of Death Eaters were from the lowest of the lowest ranks because they were broke. And utterly stupid. Some would say that the Dark Lord himself couldn't be too right in his head to see them worthy of the Mark, but Hermione understood his motives. Stupid people were reckless. Stupid people followed orders without further questioning. They were perfectly qualified to do the dirty work. Worthless, exchangeable lot they were, and there were too many of them anyway to take one's place.

But there was one thing about their stupidity that Voldemort had overlooked so far. They said too bloody much for their own good. And that's what Hermione took advantage of: for the Order and for herself. So far, only the former had profited from that. And if the Order (sans Harry, Ron and Ginny) ever found out about her own, ulterior motives for functioning as a spy, she would be taken off of the mission immediately, so she never let anyone pry into her business.

Several bloodbaths have been prevented with the help of loose tongues, only to be replaced by others. The only difference was that instead of clueless Muggles, it was witches and wizards falling cold. Those lower ranking Death Eaters were solid providers of useful information, hence the Order decided to let them live. And hence the hideout had survived all these years, and continued to be a source of entertainment for those who wanted to get laid and completely wasted, ever since the War broke out.

Some tongues had to be loosened. And that was when Hermione stepped in.

They wouldn't even recognise her. With a photo of her earlier years at Hogwarts, and the description of her prominent brown hair they simply couldn't. Her straightened hair alone let the need for Polyjuice Potion vanish completely.

What Hermione did never reached physical levels. Not only because she wouldn't want to, but also because she also had a reputation to uphold. She always held her distance. And all of them lived under the illusion that they were the one to ever own her. It was quite pathetic, really, how they bragged about their many missions which they probably made up, and about all the deaths they had caused, shelved up as trophies in their minds. All just to impress her. Of course they didn't see her empty her stomach as soon as she got home, away from their sickening presence.

And that was exactly what she did. She choked on her latest meal, chicken stew with mushrooms, as she bent over the water-closet.

ooo

Whatever it was she was using, it felt bloody brilliant. Hermione worked her way from his wrist up to his elbow, dripping some liquid onto his still open wounds. And when she touched him right where the Dark Mark had once resided, he flinched at the contact, skin against muscle mass, but not because it hurt. He felt nothing but warmth spreading through his body as she dabbed a greenish gel, soaking right in. She was murmuring an incantation while she did so.

Draco wanted to slap himself for not letting her treat him earlier.

"This should be all," Hermione muttered, walking back to the counter where she had put various other pots filled with curious looking ointments. "I need to take a look at your bruises, though. You wouldn't want your face looking far from flawless, would you?"

Damn right she was. He smirked despite the mockery he had detected in her voice as he answered her.

"Of course, Granger. Only the best for a Malfoy; you should know that better than anybody else."

"How could I _ever_ forget that," Hermione drawled, taking a spoon out of the third drawer she dragged open. "No worries, Malfoy, I disinfected my hands just to make sure you won't catch any more of my mudblood germs."

It sounded weird coming out of her mouth, the word he had used for years to torment her. Because it meant so much more when she said it. It was loaded with bitterness and harsh reality, so much more than his childish jabs he had taken at her back in Hogwarts, where blood had been a source of pride, something he never got to understand.

But blood had become more than that. It had become the fucking _sun_, with everything revolving around it.

"Self pity doesn't suit you, Granger," he said, watching her bent over the bowl she was filling with herbs he remembered seeing in Severus' cabinets. She snorted at that.

"You're just mad that your pretty little word has lost all its meaning now that the mudblood herself said it."

"And that's where you're wrong, Granger. In fact you couldn't be further from the truth," he started, but paused. In a swift movement, she turned around, and narrowed her eyes.

"And what is _that_ supposed to mean?"

And right in that moment Draco decided something. No matter if he was so bloody sure that in mere moments, he would regret his decision. It was impulsive, really, to rip out a page out of himself, the book he was. Though he would never allow to be read freely and thoroughly.

He could only hope that the rest of the pages wouldn't fall out of the binding.

"I was barely eleven when I called you that Granger. I hardly understood what it meant back then."

"But now you do. And you still use it."

She furrowed her brows, her gaze becoming intense. And a little softer at the same time.

"Habits die hard." He shrugged, and stared hard at his flawed arm. "I do. But coming from me, it still means as much as it did back at Hogwarts. Absolutely nothing. Words are just that, Granger: _words_. They gain as much power as you give them."

"And you give it none? The word _mudblood_?"

"I give it none. But _you_ give it more than it deserves."

The next three minutes passed in silence. And when Hermione was done mixing the ointment, she walked up to him. Lifting his chin upwards, she looked him straight in the eyes, as if she was looking for something in the depths of his grey orbs. Her touch was featherlight when she applied the salve on his cheeks, and lastly, on his forehead. It felt awfully intimate the way she touched him, and stood so damn close.

Draco shivered.

* * *

You must think I'm a notorious liar now that I've released yet another chapter so soon. But once I get these ideas for the story, I need to pen them down before they slip my mind. You would be surprised how many scenes I've written down in advance :)

Please don't forget to leave a review on this chapter! I'm always open for honest criticism and your thoughts on how the scenes are playing out. I still haven't decided on the ending of the story, so if you have any ideas, feel free to PM me :)

-_latefebruary_


	5. The Trail of Death

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or any of the included characters created by JK Rowling.

* * *

"I don't trust the kid," Mad Eye growled, leaning towards Lupin with his healthy eye looking forward, and the other fixed upon Malfoy. "You must be barking mad if you think I'm gonna allow him on any of the field missions."

Ron, who had taken a seat beside Moody was glaring at Malfoy and nodding along, his usually warm, friendly eyes having become icy. Not matter where Hermione looked, she was met with the same refusal to accept the Ex-Deatheater among their ranks, with the many faces she'd once known from school so unrecognisably cold and grim. Gone was the Boy-Who-Lived, now replaced by a uncomfortable Harry who was constantly shifting in his seat, not even daring to look anyone in the eyes.

It wasn't an usual occurrence that the whole Order was gathered in the very same room, sitting at the very same table, deciding over the very same thing. The Conference Room had been magically expanded, just like the table had been stretched and the chairs multiplied to ensure every single member could be in attendance for the hell that was bound to break loose.

Hermione liked to believe that the majority already had their fan banners and flags prepared. It really wouldn't surprise her; after all, Moody had secured himself special place in the Order, just like he had in the hearts of his young, manipulable minions.

So the outcome of the meeting was purely dependent on Moody's opinion. But Lupin insisted on a democratic voting system, which was more like a façade, because most people knew what kind of system they were in. It was just that nobody really complained about being led by the leash, held by none other than Mad-Eye. It was easier to leave all thinking to one person - something Hermione could never come in terms with.

"Never said he would be part of your crew, Alastor," Lupin answered tiredly, rubbing his eyes. "He can't fight along your soldiers; they would recognise him immediately."

"We thought about giving him the position of our second spy, aside from what he's offered before he joined us," Harry added with an unusually small tone, which earned him a curious look from his former Professor. Moody's one eye merely flickered from Lupin to Harry, his inquisitorial gaze still on Draco. Who remained silent, just like he had been ordered to.

"Which would be a Death Sentence to my crew, Potter. I learned to content myself with the sparse information I'm being provided with."

"_Sparse_?" Hermione cut in, gripping the armrests of her chair hard to stay seated and not jump out.

Oh how she resented this man. It wasn't news to her that Moody didn't think well of what she was doing. No matter how much she worked and worked, as a spy and as a healer at the same time, it was never enough in his eyes. He kept demanding more. There was nothing Hermione could possibly do about that. She knew the reason, just as much as the rest of the Order did: Under his commands, she had been the only one that had ever dared to voice her opinion. Everyone, especially Ron seemed to worship him, which had made her the most unpopular member of the troop. Moody didn't forget.

And all he could see when he looked at her was a weakling.

"Hermione, this is not the right-"

"The timing couldn't be any better, Harry," she snapped, irritated that once again, nobody would want to listen. "I'd rather get this out of our way before we argue about whether Malfoy would be fit for the position when my abilities alone are already in question."

It didn't help to see Moody make himself comfortable, like it was absolutely no big deal that something had been off for a long time now. And that, yet again, somebody had dared to stand up against him. And seeing Malfoy smirk and lean back in his chair made her blood boil even further. A paper bag should have been pulled over his head beforehand because if there was anything as torturous as listening to his snarky remarks, it was his trademark smirk.

But she needed him. And that was all that she had to know to keep her temper in check.

"Look," Lupin started, but he stopped himself because Moody held up his hand in dismissal, both eyes glaring at Hermione. She rolled his eyes, and barely kept herself from snorting out loud.

"The girl's been getting special treatment for months now. Cut her some slack, I'm sure Granger's perfectly capable of handling herself." He paused only to make sure all attention was on him. And that nobody would interrupt him. "You left when we needed you. When things got too rough, too critical, but guess what: We didn't back down. We _fought_. We still do. We've all had some bruises and losses, but we stayed loyal to the Order."

She wanted to strangle him. Which was her only coherent thought because her blood was boiling.

Some bruises and losses...

Hermione had never in her life met such a cold, heartless man. Never. Maybe even Voldemort was capable of more empathy. But she stayed silent because she wanted him to spit all the venom out of his system, all in one go. Maybe then Malfoy would stand a good chance at becoming the next spy. Or at least stay in the Head Quarters of the Order, within her reach.

"You've always lacked the capability of following mere orders. Think, analyse, _discuss_ - you think there is any bloody time for that?" he spat, his face crunched up in disgust. "This is War, Granger. We don't discuss, or think about the rotten souls of Death Eaters," he turned to Malfoy, who looked pale, with his smirk having gotten lost somewhere in between Moody's speech. "We kill them, before they can even think about it. But you've never quite gotten that note, have you?"

With his wand, he pointed at her head, which caused quite a commotion in the room. Beside her, Harry stood up and brandished his own wand, but Hermione remained the calmness in person. She didn't dare look at Ron, who she knew was having a hard time. And she would have lied if she told herself it didn't hurt her at all; that things had changed within the trio so drastically that it couldn't even be called one. He wouldn't stand up for her; he was done being her best friend because apparently, that role didn't get along with his role as Moody's minion.

"That's quite enough-" Lupin started, only to be interrupted.

"Don't you piss your pants, I was merely trying to make a point," Moody chuckled, lowering his wand. "This big, bursting head of yours is gonna be the death of you. Mark my words, Granger."

Raising an eyebrow, she simply looked at him. As if none of this had affected her.

As if her pride was still in tact.

And as if everything that had happened at that particular night hadn't come up, sneaked its way into her mind.

"Maybe Lucius' boy here could get you to see some sense. I heard he's as ruthless as his father; he could make you see the lot of them finally as what they truly are: _murderers_."

And his last word was echoing in her mind, mocking her.

Murderer.

She could have laughed at the irony, but was beaten to it. By Draco Malfoy, one of the alleged murderers, who had miraculously kept silent and only listened. Until now. His cold laugh was cutting through the dead silence, making her shiver.

"What is so funny, lad?" Moody growled, his magical eyes spinning in circles. Hermione became dizzy from just looking at it, and turned to Malfoy, who was grinning, with his hands behind the back of his head.

"Was just musing about your rather interesting choice of words, is all," Malfoy started, his eyes hovering over the rest of the Order, with a mocking spark in them. "Got me thinking about your ways of getting rid of 'my lot'; tell me, how many of your minions know, Moody?" He was leaning towards Mad-Eye, an evil smirk spreading over his face.

Now that caught her attention. Know what exactly? And what could it be that made Moody lose his voice that usually oozed confidence and superiority, and that Malfoy out of all people would know about it? Ron sprang out of his chair, wand pointing at Malfoy's forehead.

"What the hell are you on about, ferret?"

But Draco paid him no attention; he didn't spare him a single glance, as if Ron wouldn't even exist. Which made the hot blooded Weasley's temper flare, but it was Ginny beside him that pulled at his sleeve and whispered something Hermione couldn't hear. One apologetic look at Moody, paired up with a sheepish smile, and he sat down and stared hard the table. He flinched when Mad-Eye spoke up, although he was addressing somebody entirely different.

"You think you're fit for the job, lad?"

Just like that, Moody had declared his approval of Malfoy taking the empty spot as a spy. No more temper tantrums, no further insults or questioning. And it was more than clear that nobody else at the table would do anything of the sort; not even Ron, who had become red in the face.

It was so unlike Moody to leave question marks. Whatever it was that Malfoy had indicated must have been something huge, something truly damaging to Moody's image. If his image wasn't damaged enough as it was.

So it was all settled; Malfoy would stay in the Headquarters (without doubt, under the watchful eyes of Moody or his right hand, Ron) and be questioned about the Dark Lord's many secrets and hideouts. His training as a spy would start immediately as well; after all, the Dark Movement didn't know he had switched sides, and would accept him with open arms. Hermione feared it would be their downfall, putting so much trust into someone who was playing for both sides. But she could only watch on the sidelines, and eventually apparated back to let herself fall on the couch and think about the outcome of the meeting.

No matter how utterly selfish her reasons were, she was glad Malfoy was given a chance. Maybe he could prove himself to be useful to her. It didn't look like there was much hope left for the Order anyway, so she simply didn't think to care about that aspect.

ooo

"Where is he?"

"He should be dead; why isn't he?"

"We've all seen his dead body, Malfoy!"

They were so _not_ worthy of his time, yet there they were, pestering him until his ears would bleed and he would die from blood loss. Oh, what a relief that would have been.

But life had never shown any sign of mercy to Draco, so he didn't expect death to come any time soon. Vengeance as a life goal had to do, he decided, and let the tirade of questions crash over and over like a never-ending series of waves against shores. The sea, after all, was such a trustworthy messenger and signalled the oncoming storm that was currently in the brewing.

"Is he still working for-"

"Oh for _fucks_ sake, Finnigan!" he spat, turning to glare at him. "If you had listened, you would have heard Weaslette ask the same bloody question just a few seconds ago. In fact, I haven't gotten any new questions in these last five minutes; do you think all of you could manage to just shut that trap of yours for a few moments?"

His eyes hovered over every single person around him, eyeing him sceptically but at least finally _shutting up_.

"Thank you."

And he began.

ooo

He didn't even flinch as Draco threw the newspaper right in front of him, on his desk; he merely let his eyes slide over the front page of The _Daily Prophet_, and looked him back in the eyes. As if nothing was out of order.

Draco was _seething_. Fists clenched and his breathing coming in short gasps, he stood there behind the table that was separating him from Snape. As if the previous months hadn't proven to be some sort of foretaste of what was awaiting him in his afterlife, he had just heard of another gruesome death dying at the hands of who he was working for.

If Draco had, be it just for an instance, thought that the pain and rage he'd felt at seeing his family die surely must have numbed him, rendered him incapable of feeling anything else he had been simply _wrong_. Because finding out that Severus Snape was dead had been far from just some casual news, something ordinary that he would just acknowledge and store in his mind. If he had refrained himself from trashing things and cursing people for merely standing in his way before, he had let it all happen now. He simply hadn't given a_ single fuck_.

"Care to tell me what that is all about?" he spat, gulping down the variety of foul words that sprung to his mind by merely looking at the man. "Because I'm not even sure if I'm talking to you, or a pathetic ghost version of the newly deceased right hand of Voldie."

"You are _not_ to speak of him like that!" Snape hissed, standing up to his full height.

"Why? Thankful that he got you on the cover page of the newspapers? A dream come true?"

He slammed his palm on the picture of Snape lying in an open field covered with flowers. Flowers, as far as you could see, and an obvious attempt at humiliating Snape even further, with him encircled with pansies, hyacinths and daffodils.

"You made a deal with him, didn't you? With the Dark Lord? For playing dead to the Wizarding World, for whatever stupid plan you two have come up with? He." Slam. "Killed." Slam "MY PARENTS!" Another slam that was ringing in Draco's ears, making the small sculptures on the table faint, roll over the edge and shatter on the ground. "How _dare_ you-"

"And on what exactly are you basing your ludicrous accusations?" Snape sneered at him and lifted the shatters from the ground without even having to flick his wand, and without breaking the eye contact.

There was absolutely no way to just get inside his head. Snape might have taught him well in the fields of Legilimency and Occlumency, but he obviously hadn't seen it wise to familiarise him with his very own, sly techniques. Like he had seen it coming already, Draco penetrating his mind, which certainly didn't help the blonde's mood to improve in the slightest.

"We don't have to do this, Draco," Snape finally broke in, sighing while he retook his seat. "It's of utmost importance that you understand the complexity of what I have started. And what we, you and I, have to bring to an end."

"Oh, it will have to take more than just a pathetic explanation for all this, to convince me to do _anything_," Draco scoffed, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "I don't believe the dead, and according to the Daily Prophet, and many eye witnesses you _are_ pretty much dead. Dead to me, as well, so spare it; I don't want to hear it."

"Do you want him dead or not?" Snape hissed, leaning forward.

Now_ that_ certainly piqued his interest.

ooo

"So," Potter started, his brows knitted in confusion, but eyes shining in intrigue, and with something akin to trust. "he only made him believe he was dead? Made us all believe, that is."

The rest of the eyes that were fixed upon him didn't yet seem to have come in terms with Draco being on their side now; distrust and scepticism were things he would be dealing with for a very long time, he concluded, and simply had to ignore for the time being. If he counted Granger in, who had somehow sneaked her way into the picture and was leaning against the doorframe and watching him, he had four ears that were ready to take in all he had to share. Oh, there was definitely too much to share.

"Exactly. The Dark Lord thinks he's killed him, but he obviously has underestimated what Snape is capable of doing. As we speak, Snape is researching why Voldemort is still not dead even though the Horcruxes have been destroyed; for _years _now. He's close enough to finding out how to finally break him, and if the time has come, I'm here to show you how. It's either another Horcrux we don't know of, or the most intense form of Dark Magic to ensure that even without the Horcruxes, he's still as immortal as ever. As_ strong_ as ever."

He wondered how far his lies and fallacies would bring him.

* * *

I'm SO sorry that you've had to wait so long for a new chapter! I know that there is not a lot Dramione happening (and it's the fifth chapter already, I _know_!) but I need to head things in the right direction first before any of the romance can actually happen.

Thanks again for the encouraging words; god knows I needed them since I'm getting quite busy and need a reason to continue writing.

_-latefebruary_


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